The Galloping Ghost Read online

  Even when the boats did attack, they were hampered by torpedo shortages and, worse, scandalously defective weapons. The new torpedoes either ran too deep or the magnetic feature exploded prematurely for mysterious reasons. There were numerous additional reports that conventional contact exploders didn’t detonate, but rather hit with a thud and sank. While laughable to the enemy, it was demoralizing for sub skippers who did get in close enough, only to be counterattacked by Japanese warships with devastating, sometimes fatal, consequences. Within the first months of the war, the fleet submarines Shark (SS 174), Perch (SS 176), and Grunion (SS 216) met their demise, with the loss of nearly two hundred highly trained officers and men. Indeed, the vaunted undersea fleet had proven mostly ineffective, save for one lucky hit by the Grenadier (SS 210) on 8 May 1942 on the converted passenger liner Taiyo Maru off the Japanese home island of Honshu. The 14,500-ton ship went down with nine hundred technicians and skilled workers employed by the Mitsubishi Company. They were en route to Java and Sumatra to restore oil fields captured from the Dutch. The loss was a major setback.

  As the Navy wrestled with its torpedo and skipper problems, Fluckey tackled the books in postgraduate studies at the academy. He was very happy to be reunited with his family and anticipated that within a year he would be in position to get back into the war as commander of a Pacific submarine. Indeed, as many as three new submarines in need of officers and crew were being launched every month at shipyards spanning the nation.

  Initially the Fluckeys moved into an apartment on Perry Circle within view of the academy, planted a “victory” vegetable garden, and enrolled Barbara in preschool nearby. Marjorie’s mother, who was a registered nurse, remained by her daughter’s side for years, ensuring that she followed a strict regimen to keep her diabetes under control whenever her husband was away. Typically, fresh orange juice was squeezed every morning and kept in the refrigerator. Whenever Marjorie showed symptoms of diabetic reaction due to a drop in blood sugar, a glass of juice was at the ready. Barbara grew up understanding how important that was.

  I had always lived with it—and saw what Mom did, and what Dad did, and what my grandmother did. Dad often had me get the juice. But I had never prepared it with white Karo corn syrup—he or Nana did that when Mom was really shaky. She would say ‘I’m shaky’ or ‘I’m feeling shaky.’ Although she was unaware of it, Mom’s voice would change slightly and the cadence of her speech might also. I got to the point where I sensed when her sugar was getting low. That’s something that could annoy her when I was older. I might start to hound her about taking orange juice and present her with some and if she was still feeling well, she might blow up, although that, too, was a sign that her sugar was falling. I had seen enough insulin reactions by the time I was five or six to last a lifetime.

  The thing that worried Gene most whenever he was away was how the insulin was administered. The medicine was still in its infancy and even doctors had difficulty. “Dad handled Mom’s insulin when he was home and she had very few problems. When she did have a problem and had to have medical help, she got totally messed up,” recalled her daughter.

  Fluckey’s calculation that naval postgraduate school was the route out of Panama and into the Pacific War proved to be correct in the fall of 1943. With his promotion to lieutenant commander, he received orders to Prospective Commanding Officers’ (PCO) School at the submarine base in New London in November of that year. He and Marjorie decided it was best for her, her mother, and Barbara to remain in Annapolis to wait out the war.

  In the early spring of 1944, with his schooling behind him, he reported to the commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet, with expectations of immediately sailing into combat. But Capt. Karl Hensel had no intention of sending him outbound on the next submarine. Rather, the division commander assigned him to two months’ duty repairing new fleet subs coming in off patrol. Hensel’s intention was to go easy with Fluckey because his service had been only on an old S-boat and the Bonita, neither of which had engaged in battle. The captain wanted him to learn the modern boats and read the war patrol reports before going out as an understudy to an experienced skipper.

  The young officer did his best to hide his disappointment. He checked into his cabin aboard a submarine tender in Pearl Harbor with its brood of toothpick-like fleet boats nested tight to the mother ship to await repairs and re-provisioning. Fluckey, now one of the more senior PCOs in the fleet, looked at the boats with longing, itching to make his mark in the war. Then, just two nights into Fluckey’s assignment, around 0200, an old acquaintance showed up. It was Lt. Cdr. John R. Waterman, a graduate of the Annapolis class of 1927. The strain of war patrols in the Atlantic and Pacific as the skipper of the fleet sub USS Barb (SS-220) was etched into his face. He was exhausted—and worried. The Barb had been Waterman’s boat from its launch. It had come down the ways at the Electric Boat Company shipyard in Groton, Connecticut, in 1942 with high hopes as the latest Gato-class vessel, the final version of the fleet submarine derived from the mistakes of the V-class. The Barb and five sister submarines making up Submarine Squadron Fifty initially were deployed to the British sub base at Roseneath, Scotland. In late October 1942 the squadron sailed for Morocco to make a photo reconnaissance of the coast in preparation for Operation Torch, the Allied invasion of North Africa. The Barb patrolled off Safi, where it radioed in weather reports and enemy fleet activities, then sneaked in under cover of darkness to put two Army scouts ashore, equipped with blinkers and a radio to guide two destroyers in close to the landing zone in advance of the invasion force. On the night of 8 November 1942, amid occasional flashes of lightning that illuminated an armada of 105 approaching transports, the Barb and the other boats took position with twinkling infrared aircraft landing lights mounted on their bridges to guide Task Force 34 to the beach heads. Waterman was apprehensive throughout the operation. His boat was unmarked and could easily be mistaken for a German U-boat by Allied warships and aircraft. A constant barrage of radio communications and recognition signals had to be sustained, the difference between life and death during the ten-day operation.

  The squadron returned to Scotland and for the next six months sought out German U-boats and enemy transports off the coast of western France and northern Spain in a notch of the Atlantic known as the Bay of Biscay. The missions were perilous to the extreme. Allied aircraft buzzed overhead with orders to sink any submarine they came across. Scores of enemy submarines also prowled the surface at night. Many were outbound from Nazi sub bases on the French coast to wreak havoc on Allied convoys in the North Atlantic. The Barb’s orders were to attack the subs and to interdict Axis ships carrying supplies to Nazi bases in occupied France. However, Waterman was restricted from attacking any vessel flying the Spanish flag; Spain had declared neutrality and had agreed to post lists of its vessels, sailing times, and their destinations. It was soon obvious to the Barb crew that many more ships were being encountered than what was posted. Waterman, like other skippers, concluded that German ships were sailing under the ruse of being Spanish.

  In early December, on the boat’s second war patrol, the sub moved in on a ship that Waterman was convinced was a Nazi oil tanker. The skipper fired four torpedoes, sinking the tanker Campomanes. Spain, however, lodged a protest, claiming it was a neutral ship. Rather than create an incident, the Allies apologized and blotted out any references to the sinking, to Waterman’s chagrin. During the rest of the month-long patrol, observers on the Barb watched in frustration as a parade of 225 ships went by with suspicious cargoes. Suspect targets were tracked, approaches made, and firing tubes readied, only to be foiled by discovery of a Spanish flag.

  On the Barb’s third war patrol, the sound of frequent explosions from Allied aircraft attacking U-boats in the Bay of Biscay kept the crew on edge throughout the run. Waterman sighted even more ships—upwards of 600, with 127 large transports singled out for possible attack. The Barb had to snake between smaller surface craft in order to close in on each ship, only
to be foiled each time because they turned out to be “Spanish.” “The feeling of futility engendered by such numerous contacts which failed to develop into attacks was hard to overcome,” the skipper reported on his return to Scotland. “The tendency was to become lax and the effect on morale was noticeable.”

  Waterman was temporarily relieved for the Barb’s fourth war patrol. The results were the same for Lt. Cdr. Nick Lucker: lots of targets, no attacks.

  Reassuming command for the boat’s fifth war patrol, Waterman asked the British to conduct a sound test on his boat. For some reason, the sub had not encountered a single U-boat in its first four patrols. Something didn’t seem right. “We took the Barb up into one of the lochs where the British had an underwater sound measuring range,” noted Lt. Robert W. McNitt, who was the boat’s gunnery officer. Captain Waterman was ashore with a telephone connection between the sub and the British sound station. Explained McNitt, “We got a call back from the Brits saying, ‘You are so noisy you’re off the meter. We can’t measure you. You’ve got a trim pump that’s bloody noisy. We can hear floor plates in the engine room as your crew are walking around because they’re not screwed down. Your cook is washing dishes in the sink, we can hear the silverware.’ That got our attention . . . all kinds of things were wrong that hadn’t been thought out ahead of time. It was a real eye-opener.” Worst of all, the Barb’s sail area—the conning tower rising above the deck at amidships—was twice the size of a typical U-boat. The reason for the large size was the Navy’s insistence that its subs carry a standby compass. The only ones available were those built for battleships and standing six feet high with a big brass nonmagnetic structure built around them that required the massive sail structure.

  It was now apparent to Waterman why the Barb had been so unsuccessful in its patrols in the Bay of Biscay and a foray up the Norwegian coast in a futile hunt for the German battleship Tirpitz: the boat was too noisy when submerged and its conning tower was too large when surfaced. U-boats could see the Barb long before it could detect them, allowing the Germans to skirt around the Americans or dive under them. Furthermore, the Barb made so much noise that a good soundman on an enemy ship would hear the sub coming long before it arrived.

  The Barb’s fifth patrol was into the North Atlantic in a futile search of German “milch cows,” large submarines deployed to refuel and rearm U-boats at sea. The sub ended its Atlantic adventure on 1 July 1943 in New London, where the boat’s sail was cut down and the compass was replaced by a small armored-vehicle unit no larger than a man’s hand. Other measures were taken to silence the clatter detected by the British and to correct engine problems. Also, two 20mm guns were added to the bridge and a 3-inch gun on the after deck was moved forward at Waterman’s direction.

  It was during this time that a Barb enlisted man accused a warrant officer of molesting him in his bunk when the officer was on watch. The following morning, the skipper and McNitt, who had moved up to executive officer, interviewed the officer, a family man with children. As Waterman went to consult the squadron commander about what to do, McNitt relieved the warrant officer of his duties. As the exec went into the log room to write up a report on the incident, the warrant officer went down to the pump room below the control room, where he buckled on a 45-caliber pistol and shot himself in the chest. McNitt, like the rest of the crew, was shaken by the tragedy. He considered the warrant officer a good man, “but something overcame him.”

  After the refit, the Barb embarked for Pearl Harbor via the Panama Canal, arriving in September 1943 and going right back out on its sixth war patrol to the coast of Taiwan. Despite numerous chances to go after enemy targets, however, few attacks were made. Many aboard were very frustrated at a perceived lack of aggressiveness on the part of the captain. “I thought we were much too cautious,” said McNitt, the boat’s executive officer. “We’d come up, and if there was an aircraft that passed by we’d dive immediately and stay down. Or if there was any risk of attack, why, we’d be very, very cautious, and I think that was the main problem we had with that patrol.” Perhaps some close calls had unnerved the captain. An enemy plane dropped a bomb that just missed. “Only his poor marksmanship saved us,” noted Waterman in his official war patrol report.

  McNitt didn’t question Waterman about his tactics. “I was new to this,” he said of his early promotion to executive office while the boat was in the Atlantic. “I was not critical of Captain Waterman because I didn’t know how this could be done and what the proper way of handling it was.”

  The Barb came in off patrol in late November in hopes of a major overhaul. The failure of the main hydraulic plant came close to “causing the loss of the boat,” the skipper noted in his official report. There were numerous other problems: grinding in the rudder mechanism, a fuel leak, sound equipment leaking badly, the bow plane magnetic brake failing, the auxiliary engine needing overhaul, and outboard exhaust valves leaking excessively. The condition of the crew was another concern. “This is the sixth war patrol of this vessel and many of those aboard have made them all,” concluded the captain. “The cumulative effect is becoming apparent in some cases in the form of slacking interest or increased nervousness.”

  The boat returned to Pearl Harbor and then continued on to San Francisco for its overhaul. But on the approach to the city, the vexed Barb was attacked by a freighter coming out of San Francisco Bay. “We were on the surface, and we’d thought we were back home now,” explained McNitt. “All of a sudden this ship opened fire on us with a deck gun. The first round was about a mile astern. The next one was about half a mile astern. They were getting closer, and we thought we’d better dive. So we pulled the plug, and we went down like a rock. We had to blow main ballast before we got to test depth and came up like a cork, burst out of the water, and broached. He opened fire again at us and we got [the Barb] under again and finally got control of the ship. It was a close call.”

  Captain Waterman was all but certain he would be relieved and move up to division commander. But it wasn’t to be after the Barb returned from its overhaul to Pearl Harbor. Now in Gene Fluckey’s cabin on the sub tender, the skipper disclosed his orders to make one last run before being detached. He confided he’d bow out as captain right then and there if it wouldn’t be disastrous for his career. He was worn out—and fearful the Barb would be sunk on its next patrol. The story was going around that subs disappeared on either their first or fifth patrols—the first because the captain was inexperienced and the fifth because the same skipper was fatigued and complacent, letting down his guard. In the first nine months of 1943, eleven submarines had been lost. Waterman was beyond fatigue and worried that the string had run out for him and the Barb.

  He offered Fluckey a deal.

  The skipper had long been aware of Gene’s high efficiency ratings for both engineering and torpedoes while attached to the S-42 and Bonita in Panama. That sort of technical know-how was exactly what the Barb needed. Waterman also believed Fluckey’s youthful vigor would help reenergize the Barb. He suggested Fluckey come aboard as prospective commanding officer, that the two alternate every other night as skipper so that Waterman could get sufficient rest and Fluckey the experience he needed as captain. Sensing reluctance, Waterman assured Gene that if they returned alive and the Barb was intact, he would relinquish command to Fluckey and make it stand with higher-ups.

  That was the deal-maker.

  The next day Fluckey approached the division commander about making the next run with Waterman. Hensel, having ordered the would-be skipper to hang around a few months to learn the fleet boats, was taken aback by such a precocious request just two days after Fluckey’s arrival. Without flinching, the lieutenant commander did some fast talking, unleashing an encyclopedic knowledge of every job of every single member of the Barb crew.

  Hensel gave in.

  “Gene, if you’ve got that many ants in your pants, get going,” he replied curtly. “You’ll get your orders.”

  PART TWO


  They have attacked me.

  The counterattack will be terrible. Go below!

  —CAPTAIN NEMO, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

  Rift (Seventh Patrol)

  Thirty minutes after convincing his division commander that he was ready to become a boat captain, Lt. Cdr. Eugene Fluckey was aboard a submarine that he believed could do much to win the war against Japan. The Barb, after its overhaul, was back in fighting condition and ready for remarkable events with eager shipmates rejuvenated by new blood.

  Captain Waterman had worried after the boat’s most recent sixth war patrol that the crew had been together too long and that changes were warranted. The Navy agreed. But the skipper was surprised at the “unusually large turnover” at Mare Island—about a third of the crew. Out of sixty-nine veterans, thirty new rates, including three first-class petty officers, had come aboard. To make room for them, twenty-six crewmen, including five petty officers, had been transferred to other boats. That was consistent with a growing practice of transferring about a third of each crew after three or four war patrols. It provided a veteran core for new boats and improved morale on the older boats by melding new rates with experienced hands who took personal interest in training them. What concerned Waterman was the fact that eighteen of the new men had never been to sea. Training began at once to school the men in air and surface craft recognition, night lookout techniques, torpedo mechanics, gunnery practice, gas welding, and optical, gyroscope, and sound equipment repairs. Cross-training and critical split-second timing in diving and surfacing routines were practiced. The skipper was impressed. “The newcomers turned to with remarkable enthusiasm which was soon reflected in the efforts of the old timers to help them along,” he noted in the deck log. Still, with so many inexperienced sailors, it was comforting to have Lieutenant Commander Fluckey aboard with his wealth of technical experience in keeping the old Bonita running. The best news for the entire crew was that problems with the Navy’s infamous Mark 14 torpedoes had finally been resolved, thanks to the tenacity of Vice Adm. Charles Lockwood.